


First and Forever

by fictionallemons



Category: Supernatural
Genre: First Kiss, Fluffy Ending, Happy Ending, Light Angst, M/M, Pining Sam Winchester, Pre-Series Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Unattached Drifter Christmas, Valentine's Day, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:34:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22721776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fictionallemons/pseuds/fictionallemons
Summary: Dean's cooking. Dad's away on a job. And Sam's in love with his big brother. Just a normal Valentine's Day in the Winchester household.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Comments: 10
Kudos: 174





	First and Forever

**Author's Note:**

> Sam is 16 in this fic. Dean is 21.
> 
> Happy Unattached Drifter Christmas! <3

**Monday, February 14, 2000**

Sam sighs as he rolls out of bed. The heat in this shitty trailer sucks and he can almost see his breath. Okay, it's better than the last place, and they've been here since Christmas, so he's actually learning something in calculus and reading something new in English for once. He splashes cold water on his face, gets dressed as fast as he can. 

He smells something unfamiliar and sniffs the air, trying to place the combination of scents. He stumbles down the hallway, knocking his hip into a door handle. He's grown another inch since they've been here and his body awareness has a little catching up to do. He stops dead when he gets to the doorway of the tiny galley kitchen.

Dean's there, whistling something Sam places after a few beats. The Cure. He's barefoot on the cold linoleum, jeans low on his hips, gray t-shirt with the hole under the left arm clinging to his shoulders. He looks relaxed as he flips something on the stove top.

Sam blinks. Dean's cooking. Dad's away on a job. And Sam's in love with his big brother. Just a normal Valentine's Day in the Winchester household.

***

"What's that?" Sam asks. He's only just started drinking coffee every morning, and he helps himself to a cup that Dean's already brewed in the percolator that came with the trailer. It tastes coppery, but it's hot.

"Pancakes, Sammy." Dean shoots him a brief grin, then focuses on flipping.

"But why?"

Dean sets a plate on the peeling formica bar that they eat most of their meals at. Sam sits down on the stool and stares down. The pancake is almost as big as the plate it sits on, misshapen and lumpy. Sam squints.

"Mickey ears?"

Dean tosses a bottle of generic syrup at Sam; he catches it one-handed. "No, bitch, it's a heart."

"A heart?" Sam cocks his head.

Dean grins. "Yeah. Be my valentine?"

Sam snorts. It would be funny if he didn't want it so bad. Instead, it's just pathetic. "Jerk," he mutters, but there's no heat in it. Dean ruffles his hair, which he hates almost as much as he loves.

"Eat up. I'll give you a ride to school."

***

The students at Woodrow Wilson High School have definitely gotten the Valentine's Day memo. Girls are dressed in red and pink, some have decided the holiday calls for body glitter that seems to trail like pixy dust through the hallways. For a Monday, everyone seems keyed up. 

Homeroom is usually time for Sam to get ahead on his reading, but today it's interrupted by delivery of roses. Sam vaguely remembers the student council had been selling them all last week at lunch for a buck as a fundraiser. Sam watches with disinterest as the girl next to him gets three. He jumps a little when one falls onto his desk.

He's about to hand it back to the cheerleader delivering them—must be a mistake—but he catches his name written on the pink construction paper card attached. _For: Sam Winchester. From: Your Valentine?_ He glances around the room, as if he can figure out who sent it by looking for a tell, but one's paying him any more attention than the usually do, which means no one is paying him any attention at all.

He's tempted to throw the thing in the trash on his way to first period, but at the last minute he slips it into his backpack. It's a mystery, and Sam likes mysteries. That's what he tells himself, instead of giving any time to the pointless fantasy that his brother had conned his way onto campus one day last week in order to buy his little brother a valentine rose. How delusional can Sam get?

***

Sam's Latin class is always review, so he tends to daydream his way through the last period before lunch. They have a quiz, which he finishes early. He spends the rest of the allotted time staring out the window onto the view of the staff parking lot. He wonders idly about who sent him the rose. He wonders why he's not more excited about the prospect of having an admirer. Then he remembers why. Because he's fucked up. 

He's almost seventeen, for god's sake. He should be trying to make friends, find someone to flirt with. He's going to die a virgin at this rate. But he can't dredge up enthusiasm for getting to know some perfectly nice girl—or boy—going through the motions of liking someone, of taking them out, or of hanging out, making out, even without the trappings of a relationship. 

Why should he bother when he'll be gone again in a week, in a month? Why should he bother when the only person he's ever truly wanted is the one he sees every day? The one that ever since kissing had ceased being something that pre-teen Sam found embarrassing and gross and had started being something interesting, had been the only one Sam had ever wanted to kiss?

Sometimes he thinks it's Dad's fault, the way he's raised them. The way he thrust Sam upon Dean like a doll that Dean had to keep alive if he knew what was good for him.

Sometimes he thinks it's Dean's fault, for being too beautiful, too strong, too perfectly imperfect. For being a dad and a brother and a hero and a friend all wrapped in one shiny, vibrant package.

But deep down, Sam knows it's him. That's he's broken and he's the only one he can blame for wanting his valentine to be his big brother.

 _Pathetic_. The world echoes in Sam's head all the way through lunch, which he eats alone on the edge of the cafeteria. Why is this day lasting forever? He just wants to go home and burrow under the covers and wake up when he's over this pitiful, stupid crush. When he can look at Dean and not _want_.

He wonders if there's a spell for falling out of love. With your brother. Jesus. He's so fucked.

***

Sixth period clears up the mystery of the rose. It's the last period of the day. Dean can usually give him a ride to school, but he picked up a construction job that doesn't end till five, so Sam walks the couple miles to the trailer park most days. He's packing up his backpack, the rose wilted and sad-looking at the bottom of it, when a voice at his elbow says, "Hi."

He looks up at a small, brown-haired girl. He thinks she's in Calc with him, and maybe English, too? "Hi."

"I just wanted to say, um, that I hope you have a happy Valentine's Day. You got your rose, right?"

"That was from you?"

"I should have just put my name, it was dumb not to, but yeah. I thought, since you're new and everything that maybe you wouldn't get one and I remember being new last year and wishing someone had sent one to me anyway and yeah…" Her cheeks are pinking up and now that Sam actually looks at her, she's kind of cute. She's not wearing body glitter at least, which is a point in her favor.

"Oh. Yeah." Sam forces himself to smile, because that's what guys do when they're talking to cute, nice girls. "That was…thoughtful of you. Thanks."

"So, um, anyway, I was thinking maybe you'd want to get together to do Calc homework sometime?" She bites her lower lip. Sam registers that she's nervous, and brave. He looks at her mouth and tries to imagine kissing it. 

Maybe she just wants to be friends.

"Sure. That sounds good."

Her answering smile is bright. "Okay, cool. Maybe tomorrow, then?"

"Okay." She turns to leave but he says, "Wait. What's your name?"

***

The trailer is cold and dark when he gets home. He heats up some of the leftover pancakes and scrambles himself some eggs. He speeds through his homework, and thinks about the college fair the school's holding next week and wondering if he should even bother to go. He knows it's not even on Dad's radar—it won't even occur to him that Sam might want to apply. Dean's brought it up once or twice. Sam doesn't want to leave Dean, but this thing in his heart keeps digging deeper, keeps getting stronger, and maybe it would be the best thing for both of them if he went away for a while.

He goes to put his books back in his backpack for tomorrow, when he remembers the rose. He extracts it, bruised now, and losing petals, but still bright red, almost artificially so. He's debating what to do with it when Dean swaggers in, smelling of sawdust.

"Whatcha got there, Sammy?" he asks, unlacing his work boots with stiff fingers. It was a cold day for working outside. He sounds tired. Sam drops the rose back into his bag.

"Nothing."

"You got yourself a valentine?"

"Not really."

"Come on, please tell me someone in this house is getting some action."

Sam resists the urge to roll his eyes. "A girl in my Calc class sent me a rose because she's nice."

"Aw, that's sweet Sam. She hot?"

Sam does roll his eyes at that. "She's…cute. Small."

"All you need's a handful." Dean winks and walks to the fridge, taking out a beer. "You hungry? Let's go out."

"Out?"

"It's a holiday, Sam. We should celebrate."

"You want to go out with me on Valentine's Day?"

"It's Unattached Drifter Christmas!" Dean grins wide and easy and Sam can imagine them at a bar, Dean a magnet for girls looking for someone to make their Valentine's Day a little less lonely. The idea of watching Dean flirt and find someone to hook up with makes him literally nauseous.

"You know what? I ate when I got home, and I've got some reading to do. You go on ahead."

"Seriously? You'd rather read than take advantage of the single female population of this fair city? Oh wait, you're not my brother, you're an alien sent from planet Geek. Of course you'd rather read." There's teasing in his voice, but something else, too. Sam doesn't know why Dean would be actually angry at him for forgoing an outing. It's not like they make a habit of going drinking together and picking up girls. Dean's been doing that on his own since before Sam knew enough to dread it.

Sam smiles in what he hopes is a self-deprecating way. Better Dean think he's a geek than a perverted monster. "Yeah, so have fun." Sam closes the door behind him softly, sinks down onto his too-small single bed. At least they have their own rooms right now. Dean's sleeping in Dad's while he's away.

He flips on the light, tries to read, but he's tuned to everything Dean does through the thin walls. First he rattles around the kitchen, then he takes a shower. He yells a goodbye before Sam hears the rumble of the truck outside.

*** 

Sam's dreaming, a blur of red like blood, like rose petals. He wakes to a sound outside his door, has enough time to reach for his knife before he relaxes, lets it fall back into its hiding spot. It's just Dean, cracking the door. It must be late. Dean smells like beer and cigarettes. Sam hopes the smoke is only secondhand.

"You up?" Dean's whisper is loud.

Sam flops back down on the bed, springs creaking. "Yeah. What's up?"

Dean shuffles in, losing his boots, flopping down on the other twin bed. The room is so small they're only a foot apart. "Can I stay in here tonight?"

"Sure." Sam closes his eyes. The adrenaline of being woken up hasn't left his body yet and he feels keyed up and exhausted at the same time.

He's not asleep, but he still starts a little when Dean says, "What's her name?"

Sam opens his eyes. "Whose name?"

"The girl who gave you the rose."

"Oh. Emily."

Dean sighs. "Emily," he repeats, as if he's never heard the name before.

"How was unattached drifter Christmas?" Sam doesn't want to know, but he doesn't want to keep talking about Emily.

Dean doesn't answer right away. "It was all right. Would have been more fun if you came with me."

Sam doesn't know what to say to that. He wonders if he disappointed Dean by refusing to come with him. Something warm takes hold in his chest. Dean actually likes hanging out with him. After years of feeling like a tagalong little brother, maybe Sam's getting old enough to catch up a little.

"Don't be afraid to go for it with Emily. She definitely likes you."

Sam suspects Dean is right but he asks anyway. "How do you know?"

"Dude, she gave you a rose on Valentine's Day. Plus, you're all, you know—" Dean huffs "—anyway, she likes you, trust me."

"I'm 'all, you know?'" Sam echoes curiously.

"All—tall, floppy hair, with the dimples. Girls go for that whole deal." Dean sounds unaccountably grumpy.

"How drunk are you?" Sam asks. It seems relevant.

"Under the legal limit," Dean says. "Promise." Dean knows Sam hates it when he drinks and drives, but that's not why Sam was asking. Why would Dean be saying this stuff if he wasn't too drunk to know what he was saying?

"But I'll tell you one thing, Sammy. Girls make things easier for a little while. Your Emily—she'll feel good while you got her—don't get me wrong. It's nice. But we—you—can't count on anything long term. You know what I mean?"

Sam knows what Dean means. It's part of the reason he's never even tried to have anything resembling a relationship. It never occurred to him that the way they live might bum Dean out, too. That his brother wishes he didn't have to limit himself to one night stands and random hook-ups.

He wants to tell Dean that he doesn't have to settle for fleeting, anonymous sex. That he could have something long term. Something real, something deep, something more than any of those girls could ever give him. But he can't. He won't. Dean wouldn't understand.

Instead he says, "She's not _my_ Emily. I don't even think—"

"Sam. Trust me. She wants you."

There's something in the way Dean says it. It makes something cramp up in Sam's belly, terrifying but exciting, sort of the way he feels when they're on their way to a hunt. Dean said, "She wants you." But it sort of sounded like he was saying, " _I_ want you."

Sam realizes in a flash that all of his firsts have been with Dean. First haircut, Dean taking his toddler scissors to Sam's baby-fine hair and hacking away while Dad was in the other room. First time driving a car, age ten, one of Bobby's junkers, Dean in the passenger seat, telling him what to press, hollering in pride when Sam made his first successful gear shift, stretching out to reach the clutch. First hunt. First salt and burn. First day of high school—Dean had been there, too. It's like if Dean isn't there, it didn't really happen. Maybe Sam's wrong about what Dean's not saying, but he has a feeling that he's not going to be able to kiss Emily or anyone else if he can't have this first with Dean, even if it's just once. 

"Dean." Sam licks his lips. "You're right. Maybe I should go for it."

"Oh." Dean sounds momentarily perplexed at Sam's change of tone. "Well, yeah, man. Go for it."

"There's just one thing. I've never…" Sam hopes he won't have to spell it out, but Dean doesn't rush in to fill in the blanks. He can hear him breathing in the bed, there's no rustling, as if he's holding himself perfectly still as Sam stumbles through his explanation. "…kissed anyone."

"Seriously?" Dean's voice is gravel.

Sam pushes himself off the bed, folds himself up between the two twins. The room is dark, but he can make out Dean's eyes, glittering a little. He pushes right up next to him, not touching, but close enough. Dean doesn't move, as frozen as he was before. "Seriously," Sam whispers. "Never. I'm thinking I've worked myself up too much over it. I know it's no big deal—but it's like—I'm blocked."

"Uh, yeah. It's not hard. You'll be fine." Dean voice is rough, dry as dust.

Sam doesn't know if Dean can see his smile in the dark, but he figures he's got nothing to lose. "I think I just need to get it over with, you know?"

"Like ripping off a bandaid," Dean offers.

"Dean. Help me rip."

Sam knows he's won when Dean doesn't recoil in shock or disgust, just holds himself still, breathing quietly.

"Please." Okay, it's not really fair. Sam's had Dean's number since he was two years old. But Sam's not above a little manipulation when it's something really important.

"Okay," Dean says, tone studiedly casual. "Fine." The inches between them disappear and Dean's mouth is on Sam's and it stays there for three long seconds until Sam realizes what's happening and he opens his mouth, just a little. Dean makes a sound, something like a hurt kitten, and then his tongue is in Sam's mouth and Sam's first kiss has gone from sweet to dirtysexyhot in a flash. It's messy and deep and as first kisses go, something like the all-of-the-above option, but Sam's always been a fast learner and Dean's always pushed him to go farther, harder, so it feels right to lick into Dean's mouth, to swallow his groans along with his spit. 

_Wet._ The kiss is wet. Somehow that surprises Sam. It's hotter than anything he had imagined late at night, hands on his own dick, trying to be quiet, trying not to think about his brother one bed over.

Then it's not just a kiss, Sam's crowding over Dean on the too-small bed, cramming himself onto the edge of the mattress before Dean scoots back a little, enough for Sam to gain purchase, but he still has to plaster himself against Dean's front just to stay on. Dean doesn't seem to mind. They're connected at the mouth, and where Sam's hand grips Dean's waist, and all the places they're touching from chest to thighs.

Sam's burning up, and he's not sure what's happening right now but he doesn't want to stop. It's Dean who finally pulls back enough to break the kiss, who growls, "Wait," while Sam pants and blinks up at him through his bangs, lips bee stung and raw.

"Are you…" Dean stops, as if he's not sure how to finish the sentence. "Are you fucking with me right now?"

Sam doesn't understand the question.

"Was that seriously your first kiss?" Dean tries again when Sam doesn't answer.

"Yeah."

"Jesus. You're—Sammy." Dean sounds kind of tortured and Sam hopes it's in a good way. If Dean tells him they have to stop, that he didn't want this, didn't mean this, he's—he doesn't know what he'll do. He'll survive. But it's going to hurt.

There's a terrible, endless moment where Sam thinks that's exactly what Dean's going to do. And Sam can't blame him. This is all Sam's fault. Sam's the one with the twisted need, Sam's the one who manipulated his brother into kissing him when he wasn't entirely sober. Sam's the piece of shit who couldn't keep his hands to himself. He's about to back off, only he can't figure out how far away he should go to put things right again. The next bed over? The next room over? The next town? The next state?

Then Dean's got two fingers brushing over Sam's lips, leather on silk. "Sammy. Your mouth."

"What about it?"

"The things I've wanted—" Dean stops, his voice choked. Then he shudders, his entire body shaking. Sam feels him tremble against him, and he tightens his hold, trying to get closer, not farther away. It's the only direction that makes sense.

"It's okay," Sam whispers. "I wanted it to be you."

"Your first—?"

"My first, yeah." Sam kisses Dean's forehead. "And my—well, my forever, Dean." He kisses his eyebrow. "You're kind of it for me." 

When Sam kisses Dean's lips, Dean kisses him back.

***

"So forget what I said about that Emily girl," Dean says, sometime later, when they're both naked and sticky and too drowsy to do anything about it. "She doesn't get to kiss you after all."

"She never had a chance." 

Dean grunts. "Good." He twist around and puts a hand on Sam's chest, over his heart. "I wanted to be your Valentine, you know." Then he winks, to take some of the romance out of it. It doesn't really work.

Sam doesn't care if he's being sappy. He's almost seventeen and suddenly no longer in danger of dying a virgin. He's got Dean, brother, hero, friend. Valentine. Lover. Soulmate. 

His first kiss. His forever.


End file.
